Work Text:
Anduin did not know how the mail system on Azeroth worked. It was a mystery to all but the mages who created it. Whatever arcane process sorted the thousands of envelopes that entered the system, it delivered a letter to Dornogal addressed to him: an envelope of black paper with a red wax seal. The message inside was short:
Anduin Llane Wrynn,
Wrathion has requested your presence in the Obsidian Enclave in Valdrakken.
I am demanding it.
General Sabellian
—
Anduin kept his head down and his feet walking at a normal pace. He forced his eyes to stay on the path ahead, and to not search every face that passed by for a spark of recognition. He had never been to Valdrakken before, never set foot on the Dragon Isles themselves before. Scalesworn guards kindly directed him to the Obsidian Enclave, though once he reached the district he wasn’t sure where to go next.
He approached a guard, a black drakonid in heavy armor. Anduin held up the black envelope to the large drakonid guarding the largest building in the ward. “I’m here to answer a summons.”
The drakonid leaned down to examine the envelope, then straightened up with a nod. “Follow me,” they said with a wave of a hand. Anduin followed quietly, until the guard approached a dragon in her human visage: A human woman with black hair.
“Lady Samia,” the Scaleguard began, “The mortal the general called for has arrived.”
Samia gave Anduin a calm stare, then she nodded at the drakonid, who saluted, then left.
“I’ll take you to my father,” Samia said. With a swirl of smoky magic, she turned back into her true form, and crouched down before him. “Climb on.”
Anduin hesitated. “Where are we going?”
“The Caves of Convalescence,” Samia said, as if it was a stupid question. “Do I need to carry you there?” She raised a front paw, as if ready to snatch.
“No! No, I can climb on!”
“Then hurry, my father has little patience.”
He clambered up her back, his feet occasionally slipping against tough scales. She opened her immense wings, like great sails above his head, then leapt into the air.
Anduin lay flat against her back, wind stinging his eyes and tearing at his clothing. It occurred to him that he was putting a lot of trust in this black dragon. The thought took him back to a long time ago, to a time another black dragon promised to take him flying. A fantasy that died a long time ago. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on staying in place.
When Samia collided with something solid, Anduin clung on tighter, and beneath him Samia rolled her shoulders. “We’ve landed,” she said, “Get up.”
Anduin’s body was still clamped tight against the dragon’s back, but he opened his eyes to see where they were. Above there was a large hill (or a small mountain?) with what looked like caves or tunnels carved into its side. At ground level there was a large collection of tents made of black and white cloth. Mortals of various races walked among them, and it took Anduin a moment to recognize the dark leather uniform of the Blacktalons.
Samia bowed her great head to a man standing closest to them. “Father.”
Sabellian looked as Anduin imagined him: an older human visage with a stern frown and cold yellow eyes. His arms were crossed, and observed his daughter and Anduin with stern judgment. Anduin’s muscles were relaxed enough now that he could attempt to dismount.
“You are Anduin Wrynn?” Sabellian asked, skeptical.
Anduin jumped the rest of the way, pain rattling up his bones, making him stumble. “I am,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound unsure as he righted himself.
“Hm.” Sabellian nodded at his daughter, who took off again, disappearing into the sky.
Sabellian held out a hand, holding a glass bottle filled with cloudy orange fluid. “You will need this.”
Anduin blinked at the potion bottle. “What is — ?”
“Fire resistance potion,” Sabellian said, giving the bottle a small, insistent shake. “Since mortals are so prone to burning. It will last one hour, use the time well.”
Anduin took the bottle, a small thing containing a bright orange liquid.
“Follow me,” Sabellian said in a voice that would not tolerate dissent.
A switchback path led up the mountain, and closer up Anduin could see each cave was empty, but for a slight fog from what might be a frost enchantment. The potion bottle felt much bigger in Anduin’s hands as he followed silently behind Sabellian.
The ambient temperature began to rise as they reached an occupied cave. Wrathion, in his dragon form, was curled up and asleep among a pile of pillows and blankets. Wrathion appeared fine, aside from the crusted mucous around his nostrils. His breathing had a slight wheeze to it, a quite whistle that slowly rose and fell.
Anduin moved to step closer, and stopped. It was like standing near lava, the heat so great the air itself could catch fire. He fumbled with the cork on the potion, braced himself, and downed the fire resistance potion. It tasted like ash.
“Does this mean he has a fever?” Anduin asked, taking slow steps towards Wrathion to not wake him.
“Obviously,” Sabellian answered. “His Blacktalons setup a tent for your stay, inform me when you’ve made progress.”
“Wait!” Anduin said, spinning on his heel to face Sabellian. “What do you mean stay?”
Sabellian stopped, posture stiff and cold. “Unless you can work miracles, I imagine this will take some time, and you will stay until your work is done.”
“I don’t understand,” Anduin said. “You didn’t say anything in your letter about what you or Wrathion wanted from me.”
“You’re a healer, aren’t you?” Sabellian replied with a frustrated tone.
“Yes,” Anduin began. “But — ”
“But what?” Sabellian said with a snarl, then pointed at Wrathion. “You’re a healer he trusts, so get to work!”
“Mrhmm… wht nw?”
Wrathion’s eyes were half open, their usual red glow somewhat dimmed. He blinked at Anduin for several seconds, then his eyes snapped open and he made startled noise, followed by a wet cough that smacked against the cave walls.
“Anduin! You’re here!” Wrathion said, voice nasally.
“I called and he came,” Sabellian said. “Since you’ve been whining so much.”
Wrathion thumped his tail. “It’s not that serious,” he said, sniffling. “My dear brother is just being fussy.”
“It’s been two weeks and you have not improved,” Sabellian said. Then, to Anduin, “He will not listen to the advice of any draconic healer, maybe he’ll listen if it’s his favorite mortal.”
“I don’t know if Anduin is my favorite mortal,” Wrathion began, with a long, dramatic roll of his eyes, and the lazy wave of a paw. “There are so many to choose from.”
“...Okay,” Anduin began, with some hesitation, stepping closer to Wrathion. “Let me take a closer look.”
At a glance Anduin didn’t see much to worry about. He’d never thought of dragons catching something as mundane as the flu. At least, it looked similar to a flu in a mortal: a fever, runny nose, coughing… no symptoms that would suggest something more serious.
“Could you change into your visage for me?” Anduin asked.
“No,” Wrathion muttered. “Feels worse.”
“Okay,” Anduin said, deciding against insisting. “Open your mouth.”
Wrathion grumbled something Anduin didn’t catch, then opened his mouth wide. With a small amount of Light in his hand, Anduin ducked down to look into the dragon’s mouth.
He was unfamiliar with the exact construction of a draconic body, but basic anatomy was similar enough across many races on Azeroth, he could make educated guesses. While all the flesh inside was red, he could still see inflammation towards the back of his mouth. The sound of Wrathion’s breathing indicated excess mucus, but no serious blockages or other issues.
“Y sl dn thr?” Wrathion tried to speak without moving his jaw. “Cn see y.”
“Almost done,” Anduin snuffed out the Light in his hand, and leaned away from the dragon’s mouth. “Okay, you can close your mouth,” he said, giving Wrathion’s nose a pat. With a soft flash of Light, Anduin cast a cure disease spell.
Nothing happened.
He was disappointed, but not surprised. Some diseases could not be cleansed with magic. Those were generally more serious than seasonal sniffles. Magic-resistant diseases were more likely to result in permanent harm or death.
He wasn’t sure what to make of that just yet.
“It’s probably just a respiratory infection,” Anduin said to Sabellian. “How long has he been sick?”
“Two weeks,” Wrathion said. “It’s fine, I’ll be fine!”
“I didn’t plan on staying for more than a day,” Anduin said, feeling small. “And I told Jaina I would return by tomorrow.”
Anduin couldn’t read the change in the dragon’s face, the tension around Wrathion’s brows and jaw. “I’ll have one of my Blacktalons secure whatever you need,” Wrathion said. “And I’m sure your archmage aunt will understand that plans change.”
Anduin focused on his posture, keeping his back and arms straight and stil. “I’m sure… I can figure something out.”
Back at Khaz Algar, the current focus was on Undermine, and there was little he could contribute to that effort. If there was a time for him to step away, a time his absence would cause no harm, it would be now. Assuming nothing happened while he was away.
—
Anduin sat on a log bench and watched Blacktalons milling around. Wrathion’s agents had always been professional, quiet, and precise. They paid him no mind as they did… whatever it was they did. Anduin, in his scuffed armor and stained cloak, felt as out of place as he did back in Dornogal. Anduin tried not to think about it.
A voice from deep in his memory called out. “Prince Anduin! It is good to see you again!”
Anduin briefly doubted the evidence of his eyes. “Tong?”
The Pandaren had more grey fur around his nose and mouth, but Anduin could not forget that face. Memories flickered behind his eyes: A plate of steamed buns that appeared by his side sometime during his jihui game. A large hand holding his, keeping him steady down the stairs. Extra blankets on his bed when the nights grew colder.
As soon as Anduin recognized him, it was like he’d only left the Tavern in the Mists a week ago; years lifted from his back, and for a moment he could pretend joy was possible. “Tong! I can’t believe it, I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again!”
Tong gave him a bright smile, and adjusted his grip on a woven basket he held under his arm. “And I didn’t think I’d ever see you again! You’ve grown into a fine young man!”
Anduin, unsure how to respond, instead changed the subject, “I didn’t think you would still be working with Wrathion.”
“I didn’t expect to be here either,” Tong said, his smile bright. “It’s quite a tale, I’ll have to tell you sometime. For now, you were in need of supplies?” Tong held out the basket he’d kept under his arm. “Here’s a blanket, soap bars, a small sewing kit, and some dried fruit snacks. Meals are handed out three times a day at the big tent in the middle. Is there anything else you will need during your stay?”
There was a slight smell of sandalwood, it smelled of long evenings over a friendly game. “I’m okay.”
Tong, if he noticed the tears, said nothing. “Follow me, I’ll show you your tent.”
Tong walked with a familiar stiffness, like his hips or knees ached when he moved. Had it gotten worse since then, his steps slower? Anduin couldn’t quite tell. Sympathy ached in his bones.
Tong arrived at a tent, same size and appearance as most of the others. Anduin had no idea how Tong could navigate this place. “This is for you,” Tong said, with a sweeping gesture. “Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything.”
“Could I have a pen and paper?” Anduin asked.
“I will be right back,” Tong said with a nod before withdrawing.
Inside, he tent held only a few things: a bedroll, a blanket, and an oil lamp. Anduin set the basket down and sat on the ground, looking over the collection of borrowed items.
“I’m back,” called Tong’s voice from outside, “May I come in?”
“Yes,” Anduin replied, and Tong slipped pas the tent flap, and held out a pen and several sheets of blank paper. Anduin smiled as he took them, small and honest. “It means a lot that you’re here too. Thank you.”
Tong smiled back, nodded, and quietly departed.
Anduin, awkwardly using his thigh as a writing surface, began his letter.
Auntie Jaina,
I am sorry I will not be able to return to Dornogal for a while. An old friend reached out for help, and his situation he needs me to stay for longer than I anticipated...
—
Anduin woke up slowly, opening his eyes to see the inside of a tent. It took his mind longer than he would like to remember he’s at the Blacktalon camp.
He once had a lengthy morning routine, preparing himself for court and a day of royal duties. Now he did almost nothing before getting up and existing another day. He wandered out of his tent, and the camp was the same as before, Blacktalons going about their business and paying him no mind.
Checking on Wrathion seemed like the first thing he should do. He wasn’t sure if he would find the right cave on his own, until he heard voices shouting. He could hear them from quite far away. As he got closer, he was not surprised to recognize them as Wrathion and his brother.
“I’m not drinking any more of that vile concoction,” Wrathion said, wings half flared. “It doesn’t even work!”
“It isn’t working because you’re not taking it consistently!” Sabellian shouted back, holding a potion bottle with a delicacy that Anduin hadn’t thought possible.
“And I’m tired of you constantly smothering me!” Wrathion said. “Maybe that is what’s making me sick! I’d get better if you’d just give me space to breathe!”
“Do you know how hard this potion was to brew?” Sabellian said. “Back in Outland, there were barely enough ingredients to — ” As soon as Sabellian spotted Anduin, he pointed at him. “You! Get my foolish brother to take his medicine like a reasonable creature.”
“What exactly is the problem?” Anduin asked, walking slower now.
“Sabellian is trying to make me drink the most disgusting fluid I have ever encountered, claiming it will help.” Wrathion said, curling up tighter as he glared at his brother.
A memory bubbled up in Anduin’s mind: a bowl in his lap, shivering in a cold that only existed in his body. “I have an idea.”
—
The tent in the very middle of the Blacktalon camp might be the largest. Inside were crates of vegetables, bags of flour, a varied collection of pots and pans. Just outside someone dug a fire pit, filled with the ashes of older meals.
Simple tools and ingredients, he could work with this.
Sabellian watched him with curious eyes as Anduin gathered ingredients and tools, then set them down by the fire pit.
Anduin already explained his plan to the dragon. Some potions could be mixed with food, and though this risked diluting the effect of the potion, it helped when a patient was unwilling or unable to take it.
Anduin had vivid memories of being a small child, sniffing and feverish, refusing to leave his bed. Then Katrana would feed him a sour soup before being pushed out of his warm bedroom to stand in the freezing throne room all day.
The past few years living in the wilderness meant Anduin had gotten pretty good at feeding himself with whatever he could find or catch in the wilds. His survival training by SI:7 got him through Pandaria, and they were keeping him alive in self-imposed exile. He’d gotten pretty good at soup, and that would be the easiest thing both to make and to hide medicine.
While gathering ingredients, Anduin looked at the tidy rack of spices in the tent, each little bottle filled with different warm-colored powders. He recognized some of the names handwritten on them, but could not remember which tasted like what. There were many more he’d never heard of before. He decided he wouldn’t risk it.
He started with a jug of bone broth, dumping it into a pot. What next? A vegetable? There were some onions, but Anduin didn’t want to deal with cutting onions right now. Was dehydration a problem for dragons? It couldn’t hurt to get Wrathion to drink more water, so he should add extra salt. This was a big pot too, he should add more than he thinks he’ll need. That sounded right.
Put everything in the pot, then let it boil.
When enough time passed, he took off the lid and gave it a peek. A dark brown liquid bubbled in the pot. It smelled… fine.
Anduin held out a hand to Sabellian. “Can I have the potion?”
Sabellian wordlessly handed Anduin the bottle, who slowly poured it into the pot. The soup didn’t seem to react, that was good. He used a spoon to mix the potion in, until the bottle was empty.
He went to grab a bowl, then realized a dragon might have some trouble eating out of one. It did bring him the mental image of Wrathion trying to hold a spoon between two large talons. The soup pot itself might be the right size for a dragon, he would try that. Anduin picked up pot, and Sabellian gave it a skeptical frown, but did not comment. Sabellian led him back, only for Wrathion to squint at the pot in Anduin’s hands.
“Try this,” Anduin said. “I’m not sure how…”
“Just tilt it towards me,” Wrathion said, and shuffled closer.
Anduin obeyed, holding up the soup pot at an angle. A red tongue poked out from between the dragon’s teeth, and gave the soup a cautious lick.
Wrathion spluttered. “Pah! Did you make this with seawater?”
“No?” Anduin said, shoulder slumped.
“It’s either this, or I hold your mouth open and pour it directly down your throat,” Sabellian said. “Make your choice.”
Wrathion grumbled, but stretched his neck towards the pot again, lapping at the soup until it was mostly gone.
Anduin, feeling he should say something, reached out a hand and patted Wrathion’s snout. “Good job.”
“Bleh,” Wrathion grumbled.
“This is the least amount of trouble you’ve made taking your medicine,” Sabellian turned to leave. “I will put you in charge of administering Wrathion’s medicine, if this is what it takes. The mortal has earned his keep. Continue to help my brother until he recovers.”
Anduin got ready to leave, when a talon snagged on his cloak.
“If you’re going to make me suffer you’re going to stay and entertain me.” Wrathion declared, and tugged on Anduin’s cape. “I know little about Khaz Algar, tell me about it.”
Something cinched around his neck, crawled up his back and clutched at his shoulders. “I should. Go do something.” And retreated from the cave.
—
The next time Anduin went into the kitchen, someone was already there.
“Wrathion requested that I help you prepare food for him,” Tong said.
“Oh…” Anduin felt his face heat up.
“Nothing to be ashamed about,” Tong said, with a slow shake of his head. “We all have to start somewhere. Now, if you’re ready, join me over here and we’ll get started.”
Sabellian left two crates of potions in the kitchen tent. There was a small note on the healing potion crate: “Don’t waste them.”
“Please start as you normally would,” Tong instructed.
Anduin did, getting soup stock and filling the pot. Then he looked at the crates of vegetables, grabbed something that looked mostly like a potato, and raised an arm to toss it in.
“No, wait!” Tong said, and Anduin froze. “Wash your vegetables first.”
“Oh,” Anduin’s cheeks turned hot. He has spent too much time on his own in places that had no running water. Of course he should wash it first.
He did so in a small basin, and then Tong instructed him on the best method to peel and chop it. He added the diced potatoes, then added the healing potion. “That’s it.”
“You should always taste it before you serve,” Tong said, and Anduin grimaced. Eating food he’s preparing for someone else? Gross!
Tong seemed to pick up on the source of Anduin’s discomfort. “Just take a clean spoon,” Tong did so. “Take a small scoop, and give it a try.” A small sip. “Then you’ll know if you’re done, or if your dish still needs something. I would say it needs seasoning.”
Anduin looked at the packed spice rack. “How are you supposed to know which ones to use?”
“Easy,” Tong said. “Give it a sniff, and if it smells like something that would go with your meal, add it in.”
“…That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Anduin gave the spice rack a skeptical glance. “There has to be more to it.”
Tong shrugged. “I can’t speak for chefs from your home, but this is how it’s done in Pandaria.”
Who was he to argue with thousands of years of culinary tradition?
He picked up a few bottles at random and smelled each, and picked one that seemed like it would fit. He tossed some of the dried leaves in the pot. It did smell a bit better? Was that it? Tong handed Anduin a clean spoon, who took it, and with a slight grimace, scooped up some soup tried a small sip.
Tong took another spoon and tried the soup himself, then pursed his lips in thought. “What do you think, my student?”
Anduin tried to think of something other than ‘it tastes fine’, but all he said was, “It tastes fine.”
“Would you serve this to a friend?” Tong asked.
“I think so?” Anduin said.
Tong gave Anduin an approving nod. “Well done. And do not worry too much, this was only your first lesson.”
Anduin took one of the fire resistance potions, then hauled the pot up to Wrathion’s cave. As soon as he walked in, Wrathion gave the pot a suspicious glare, nose wrinkled.
“Tong helped me make this one,” Anduin said. “No seawater this time, I promise.”
A full body shudder rattled the dragon briefly, before tentatively stretching his neck. Anduin held up the pot at an angle as Wrathion dipped his tongue into the soup.
Wrathion hummed in thought, before declaring: “Inoffensive.” He then finished the soup without further comment.
—
“Wrynn! Wake up.”
Anduin cracked open his eyes, the blurry shape of Sabellian halfway into his tent. “Wrathion cannot sleep,” Sabellian shoved a small bottle full of purple fluid at him. “Go help him.”
—
Wrathion’s coughs echoed through the small cave, taking up all the space it could. When Anduin approached, he quickly spotted the purple potion bottle in his hand.
“My brother is making you do his dirty work,” Wrathion grumbled, exhausted glare set on the potion bottle in Anduin’s hands.
Earlier, when Anduin tried adding the sleeping potion to a soup, it fizzled and foamed with the aggression of a cat refusing a bath. This wasn’t one he could hide in food.
“I can’t make it taste better,” Anduin admitted, “...But I can stay for as long as the fire resistance potion lasts.”
“Fine,” Wrathion grumbled. “Dispense the wretched concoction.”
Anduin gently poured drought onto Wrathion’s tongue, allowing him to slowly swallow a little at a time. Wrathion made a disgusted noise, draconic face crumpled into a sour pucker.
“Sorry,” Anduin said. “That’s just how it is.”
“Blech,” replied the dragon.
Anduin sat down a short distance from dragon. He pulled out a book he’d borrowed from a Blacktalon, a visitor’s guide to the Dragon Isles.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Wrathion began, “Why’d you cut your hair?”
“Oh,” Anduin ran a hand along his scalp, hair rough and unevenly cut. “It was getting in the way.”
“That’s a shame,” Wrathion said, laying his head on his front claws. “I liked it long.”
It was like there was a rock in Anduin’s stomach. He kept his eyes on his book, but did not see.
“You were missed.” Wrathion said.
Anduin huffed out an anxious laugh. “I can’t imagine why.”
“...Why did you stay?” Wrathion asked, “When you don’t want to be here?”
“What?” Anduin now moved to look Wrathion in the eye. “Of course I want to be here! You’re sick, and if I can help I will.”
“I would…” Wrathion’s voice trailed off, barely after beginning his sentence. Anduin waited, but Wrathion didn’t continue.
“...Wrathion?”
There was still a slight whistle in his breaths, but now they were deep and slow. Getting proper rest will help him heal faster.
Now that Wrathion was asleep, and could not witness his escape, Anduin picked up his book and fled.
—
Anduin come into the cave with a morning pot of soup, but Wrathion didn’t respond. He was still curled up, eyes closed, oblivious to the human’s approach.
“Wrathion?”
The dragon didn’t respond.
He set the pot down with a clatter of metal on stone. He put a hand on Wrathion’s snout, intending to shake him, but paused. He tried walking around the dragon’s head, “Hello? Sleeping in?”
Wrathion half opened one eye with almost no glow to it. “Hmn?”
Anduin leaned down. “Wrathion?”
The eye slid closed.
Anduin reached out to put a hand on the dragon’s neck, but then pulled back. Dark flakes stuck to the skin of his palm.
Before he could even fully form the thought ‘I need to find Sabellian’, the dragons’ voice arrived at his ears. “What’s wrong? Has he worsened?”
“I don’t know,” Anduin admitted, still looking at his palm.
When Sabellian was close enough to see what Anduin did, Anduin could feel the heat of his rage, even with the effect of the fire resistance potion. “How did you make him worse?”
“It’s not my fault!” Anduin shouted, turning to fully face Sabellian now.
“You have every resource available to you!” Sabellian shouted. “I would have done anything to save my mates! Why aren’t you?”
Anduin searched Sabellian’s face for any hint of sarcasm. Or a joke? Something other than sincere, hurtful rage.
But no.
“I…” Anduin bit down on the denial. “I’m sorry.”
Sabellian raised a hand, to gesture, to strike, to cast, Anduin had no idea. “Just. Go.”
—
Wrathion spent most of the day sleeping. That might be good. Time felt like a syrup, slow yet consuming, and Anduin could do nothing but sit helplessly. When a tint of dusk did begin to show in the sky, he got ready to make Wrathion’s evening pot of soup. He filled it up with stock as he normally did, but somewhere between there and the path to the fire pit, his grip slipped on a handle.
The metal pot hitting the ground had to be the loudest sound in the world, loud enough that even Stormwind could have heard it. The broth poured out in a wave, breaking against the dirt. Anduin didn’t make a move to catch it, to stop it, instead standing frozen as he watched the broth he wasted spread into a puddle. Anduin was barely aware when his knees gave out and he fell to the floor. Spilled broth began to soak in between the gaps in his armor, into his clothes. He stared at the empty pot, laying on its side. He stared.
Something wrapped around his shoulder and Anduin jumped.
“Hush, it’s okay,” Tong said softly. Anduin reached up and nerous fingers found the texture of a towel around his shoulders. A large hand covered Anduin’s. With a firm tug, Tong directed Anduin to sit instead on a nearby chair. Anduin allowed himself to be led, to be told what to do. “Just sit, and I’ll get this cleaned up.”
Anduin turned his face away as he wiped at his eyes and cheeks. “No, no, I should do it.”
Tong leaned down, his dark green eyes level with Anduin. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
Anduin wrapped the towel tighter around shoulders and numbly watched Tong quietly clean up his mess. He wiped the floor with a second towel, picked up the fallen pot, and put it back in its crate. Once the kitchen was cleaned to his satisfaction, Tong sat down next to Anduin, who hadn’t moved.
“I can’t even make soup,” Anduin said to his knees.
“Every chef I ever met had some story of knocking a pot over, or setting something on fire, or ruining a whole dish.” Tong said with a slow shrug. “They kept on cooking after such disasters. I don’t think this will be the end of your culinary career, at least I hope it won’t be. You’ve been improving.”
Anduin said nothing.
“You can talk, if you wish,” Tong began, “Or we can sit together, and enjoy a moment of quiet.”
He felt tears well up again, and lacked the strength to hold them back. Tong sat on the ground beside him, folding his hands in his lap. Anduin buried his face in his arms, habit forcing him to muffle the sounds of his sobs. He had no idea how much time passed until he ran out of tears, sitting curled up on the chair, occasionally taking a hiccuping breath.
“A very long time ago,” Tong began, “There was a young pandaren who dreamed of seeing the world, so he enlisted as a trainee Shado-Pan.”
Anduin stared at Tong, questions on his tongue, but he held it back.
“He grew up on a farmstead near Halfhill,” Tong continued. “He was restless, and discontent with farm life. His training began in earnest, but he did not complete it. It was an accident, there was no one to blame, yet the young pandaren could not continue his training. Despite his pleas, he was expelled from the temple. The young Pandaren found himself lost, his lifelong dreams shattered, and left without a place in the world. He spent years learning how to fight, but was in no shape to do so. He could not labor on a farm, he could not fish or hunt, and possessed few other skills. The only employment he could find was with smugglers who needed someone who could be discreet. An ex-Shado-Pan was exactly what they were looking for.
“The young pandaren was good at his job, he kept the inn running and inconspicuous. Eventually, his boss put him in charge of a tavern next to her black market. A way to attract customers who might otherwise pass by on the shrouded road. The young pandaren, who was not so young anymore, fulfilled his duties, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to imagine there could be more. Then the mists fell, and by a strange turn of luck, a foreign prince decided to roost at his inn. One foreign guest became two, and they brought with them a great deal of change to the world. Then, many years later, the prince made the pandaren an offer, and the pandaren decided to take a risk. He followed the prince and traveled the world.”
Tong followed up his story with silence. Anduin sniffed, and wiped at his eyes and nose. “Thank you.” Anduin murmured.
Tong patted Anduin’s good knee, before getting up to take his leave. Anduin watched his slow, awkward steps, and understood.
—
Anduin took his usual fire resist potoin, and walked up the small mountain (or was it a big hill?) to find Wrathion asleep, exactly the same as he’d found him that morning. Anduin walked in, stopped, and sat down, still many feet from the dragon.
“You would like Khaz Algar,” Anduin began. “There’s an Earthen city there, Dornogal, and they’ve been dependable allies. I can picture you asking to explore their archives, asking about the Titans…” Anduin trailed off, looking out past the lip of the cave entrance to the distant, darkening sky. “There was an Arathi settlement down there. I didn’t know the empire was still around, somewhere. Anywhere. So many human kingdoms have fallen, it was a bit like finding family I didn’t know I had. Maybe a bit like you meeting Sabellian and his children here.”
Wrathion continued to breathe, slow and deep and with an odd noise, his airways still partly obstructed.
“I’m scared.” Anduin said, “I don’t know if I can even say all the things I’m scared of. I’m scared of Sabellian, I’m scared of failing you, I’m scared of myself, I’m…” Anduin’s voice caught, he swallowed, and started again. “I wish I had something to say, something that would help. I don’t think I know much of anything anymore. I can’t be king but I don’t know how not to be king. I’m a priest but the Light abandoned me, only for a little while, but it did. I don’t know if I can do anything right anymore.” Anduin felt tears rise again, and this time he didn’t have the energy to stop them. “I don’t know what I’ll do if you die. I know I haven’t been a good friend, but…” Emotion grasped at his throat and his thoughts lost shape. He took a shaky breath, lost in the maze of his own mind.
“Stay,” whispered a small, raspy voice.
So he did.
—
Anduin waded into consciousness vaguely aware that his cheek was squished up against something solid. He was sweating all over, his clothes sticky with it, almost adhering to his armor. He groaned and opened one eye, and looked out onto a plane of dark scales, slowly rising and falling.
Wait. How long has it been?
Anduin flopped upright He was absolutely boiling, but it wasn’t the deadly heat that could set him ablaze. It had to be longer than the one hour the fire resistance potion should have lasted.
“Wrathion?”
“Mnnnn,” Wrathion mumbled. “Whr?”
Anduin put a hand on Wrathion’s shout. “How do you feel?”
Wrathion opened his eyes, slowly, but there was a brighter glow to them. “Little better.”
Anduin leaned back against the dragon’s side, his fears dissipating with a long, deep exhale.
—
After that, Wrathion began to improve. Slowly, but surely: The damaged scales were shed, his mind became clearer and more present, his appetite improved, he had more energy, and was on the way to a full recovery.
Then there came the day when Anduin walked into the cave and found not a dragon, but a man wrapped up among the blankets and pillows. His nose dripped, his hair was mussed, his clothes crumpled, and generally looked like he woke up from a nap that lasted too long, but he also looked healthy.
Wrathion looked up at him, an uncomfortable frown on his lips. “What are you looking at?”
Anduin thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
